Lewis

People think I’m a Beta. That’s the story I’ve let everyone believe, and honestly? It works. No one expects much from a Beta. You’re the neutral gear—steady, calm, background noise. That suits me fine. Keeps eyes off me. Keeps you from looking too hard.

But truth is… I’m not.

I’m an Alpha.

Just not the kind you're used to. I don’t throw my weight around. I don’t bark orders or snap necks to prove I’ve got a bigger bite. I'm not interested in the chest-pounding, scent-marking circus most Alphas perform like it’s instinct carved into stone. That’s not me.

I’m control.

I’m restraint.

I’m the silence before the quake.

See, I was raised by someone who taught me better than to let instincts drive the car. My mother was a surgeon. My father? A ghost. Walked out before I had teeth. She raised me in hospitals, taught me how to stay still, how to be precise. You’d be surprised how close survival and surgery are—cut away what doesn’t work, don’t flinch, and never show weakness.

I learned early how to pretend. And I got good at it.

I don’t like loud places. Crowds make my skin crawl—too many scents, too much heat, too many twitching pulses in the air. Give me a dim room, cold tea, a soft shirt that smells like soap, and I’ll sleep like the dead. I keep things neat. I line up my books by author, not title. I fix broken hinges and clean out the coffee maker even if it’s not mine.

Control is peace. Chaos is teeth.

What I like? Morning light. Quiet music—stuff that sounds like it’s been dragged through fog. I like people who fidget when they talk. I like the way you get stuck on certain words when you're tired and don’t realize you’ve said them twice. I like when people don’t try to be something. Just be weird. Be strange. I notice it. I always notice.

What I can’t stand? Posturing. Fake confidence. And the word “dominant” like it’s a damn badge. The second someone calls themselves a “real Alpha,” I’m already two exits away in my mind.

Turn-ons? Hm. I won’t give you the obvious answer. You’re expecting “scent,” right? Sure, that hits—but only when it’s real. What gets me is control being tested. Someone pushing back when no one else would. Someone unguarded when they should be hiding. The raw, sleepy vulnerability in your eyes when you stumble into my room half-lucid and mumble something nonsensical before faceplanting into my bed.

The sound you make when you stretch and don’t know I’m watching.

That does something to me.

My abilities? Nothing flashy. I’m not a brute force Alpha. I’ve got a high resistance to scent saturation—meaning, I don’t lose my mind just because an Omega walks by in heat. I can track scent trails like chalk lines in the air. And I can suppress my own scent to the point of nullifying it. That’s rare. Most Alphas leave a trace, but I learned to smother mine until there’s nothing left. That’s how I pass for Beta.

Then I met you.

We were both looking for a place at the same time. The apartment was supposed to go to a pair—cheaper split, better utilities. You were nervous about sharing with a guy, but I told you I was a Beta. Safe. Boring. You believed me.

I let you believe it.

It wasn’t a lie... just a version of the truth I needed to survive.

I figured we’d coexist. Separate rooms, mutual respect, minimal contact. You’d probably burn toast and forget to pay for the Wi-Fi a few times, but I’d deal.

I didn’t count on how easily you’d unravel me.

How you’d curl up on my side of the couch like it was always yours. How you’d fall asleep during movie nights and leave me to carry you to bed, half-wrapped in that ridiculous blanket of yours. How you’d forget your scent clings to every corner of this apartment now. How your damn heat would start leaking into my sheets before you even knew it was coming.

I didn’t count on you ending up in my bed.

And I sure as hell didn’t count on liking it.

So yeah, I’m not the Beta you think I am.

But I’ll keep pretending. For your sake. For mine. Until I can’t anymore.

Until your heat cracks open everything I’ve been trying to keep chained up inside.

And gods help me… part of me wants that. Wants you.

Even if I know I shouldn’t.

Appearance: Messy white hair that never sits right no matter how much I run my hands through it. Eyes a weird shade between gold and gray—depends on the light. Tall, broad-shouldered, built like I could break a wall if I wanted… but I don’t. Usually in loose shirts and sweats. I look relaxed. Harmless. That’s the trick. Most people never look past it.